


i came here (so you'd come for me)

by intimatopia



Series: i once fell for your soft hands [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, M/M, Nipple Play, Penis In Vagina Sex, Triggers, Vaginal Fingering, non-dysphoric trans character, past CSA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intimatopia/pseuds/intimatopia
Summary: Auguste hugs him. He’s warm and solid and he manages to make Laurent feel safe and—and no one has hurt him with Auguste in the house. It was only after Auguste left. Everyone knew Laurent would tell Auguste anything and everything.
Relationships: Auguste/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: i once fell for your soft hands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895647
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	i came here (so you'd come for me)

**Author's Note:**

> the sequel to my relationshipping fic. contains more warnings than those tagged because i finished writing this fic a few weeks back and no longer quite remember what/how to tag.

It never gets better. Laurent is pretty sure that it gets _worse_. The haircut makes him stand out, and he doesn’t fit in anywhere now. Not that he did before, but at least he’d made a _pretty_ girl. 

He grows his hair out again, and throws himself into pretending. _Just a phase,_ he tells his mother, and she smiles her watery smile and touches his still-growing hair gently. He feels sick and smiles back at her.

His father says nothing. Auguste goes back to the city, still breezing his way through engineering with a sports scholarship he doesn’t need. Laurent isn’t jealous. He doesn’t care enough to try. He smiles and smiles and comes close to ruining his skin with knives a hundred times that year, and never dares. Instead he starves himself, delicately at first and then with almost artistic flair. Skipping meals is harder than it seems.

It doesn’t make him feel better, but at least when he feels worse he knows why.

Late at night he fingers his phone and thinks about texting his brother. Coming clean. Begging him to take Laurent away. A photo of his tits.

He could always insist he hadn’t meant to send that last one to _Auguste._ And then Auguste would know his baby sister is sending photos of her tits to guys in her class. The sister he’d been so willing to accept as a brother. Laurent wants to ruin that grace.

But he never does. He likes it too much, undeserved as it is. It’s all he has. The way his brother looks at him, the way he never questions anything Laurent does.

Even at his worst, Laurent never calls him. Knowing he could is enough.

Laurent is starving on his lies as much as the lack of food.

He gets reckless, uses the beauty he still has like poison. Fucks a girl in his class and then another, and then a guy. He’s mean enough to be desirable and pretty enough that the cruelty doesn’t matter.

Even so, there’s only so much Laurent is capable of enduring. He’s eighteen when he leaves, credit cards stuffed in his backpack along with a couple of changes of clothes and one of Auguste’s t-shirts. No note, though Laurent thinks about it and even goes so far as to write it. He ends up putting it in his pocket, shutting the door quietly behind him.

It’s wintertime. He’s walking out into a disadvantage. It’s a mile and a half to the bus stop but Laurent stops under an awning, shivering with the wind, and blocks his family’s numbers.

All but one.

His brother lives in a city that’s three hours away by flight. It’s a day by bus. Laurent leans against the fogged-up windows and thinks about the note in his pocket. Thinks he should have left it after all.

He has enough money to make finding a flat easy. Enough money to furnish it too, if not as well as his room at home—his family’s house, now. There’s nothing for Laurent there. This one is sparse, but it’s _his_ , and Laurent spends the days teaching himself to cook because he never liked the idea of it at home but now something drives him to learn. He doesn’t eat most of what he makes, but it’s nice to know it’s _there_.

It’s nice to know that his brother is only ever an hour or two away. More if there’s traffic. Laurent could walk to his house.

Laurent knows he should ease himself into making changes, but he’s never gotten the hang of taking it slow. He cuts his hair short, better this time. Leaves enough that he could still be pretty, because he’s old enough to preserve what matters to him.

Every thin sliver of advantage. Even if it means giving up being seen as what he is.

But he buys different clothes, and a binder, and practices lowering the register of his voice. He scratches at his arms, no longer so invested in preserving his skin. The binder hurts if he wears it too long, and he does it anyway, because he’s always enjoyed a certain kind of suffering. He’d have lived less if he didn’t.

He finds himself a job, too. A couple dozen hours a week at a nearby coffee shop. Smiling on demand and steady hands are always valuable, Laurent learns, and almost manages to enjoy it despite his co-worker Nicaise being a regular dick at every chance. Laurent gives better than he gets.

In December, Auguste calls him. “You never told me you left,” he says quietly. There’s no accusation in his voice. There’s nothing except exhaustion, which is worse.

Laurent wanders over to the window. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Where are you now?” Auguste asks.

“Arles,” Laurent breathes. “You?”

“Home,” Auguste replies, and huffs a laugh. “I would have liked to see you.” It’s a light admonishment, and it warms Laurent more than anything has in years. “They’re worried about you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Laurent says, suddenly cold again, and cuts the call. He paces furiously all night, and texts Auguste an address before breakfast with shaking hands.

His doorbell rings at eleven pm. Laurent opens the door slowly.

Auguste must have driven all day to be here. “Won’t they miss you?” Laurent asks mockingly.

“ _I_ missed you,” Auguste says, so fucking honest it hurts. Laurent wants him to be a better liar. He wants his brother to press sharp untruths into his skin like everyone else does, so Laurent can pry his love out with the thorns.

He doesn’t know if he means his love for Auguste or Auguste’s love for him. He doesn’t know which would hurt more to lose

And he doesn’t know how to respond to Auguste either, because he doesn’t want to risk being seen through. He lets Auguste in, closes the door behind him, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Do you want dinner?” he asks sharply.

“Sure,” Auguste says agreeably, dropping his bag on the couch and kicking off his shoes. But then he’s heading right at Laurent, and Laurent isn’t fast enough to stop him—

From hugging Laurent?

He freezes. Auguste is warm and close and he smells like peppermint and sweat and driving for nine hours straight. And he’s _here,_ which Laurent knew but didn’t believe until this moment. Laurent closes his eyes and clings, unable to remember the last time he felt this safe.

How did he _ever_ convince himself it was enough to have Auguste without reaching for him? Laurent aches with want. He’s so hollow, and his brother is the only real thing in the world.

Auguste holds him for a long time. Laurent blinks until his eyes are dry and pretends they were never wet. They eat dinner in near-total silence, side by side on the couch while Laurent refuses to look at Auguste and Auguste doesn’t make him.

“I don’t have a guest bedroom,” Laurent says, as he washes the dishes. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Auguste says calmly. “We can share.”

Laurent rolls his eyes to himself. Auguste _still_ trusts his intentions, after all this time. Like Laurent doesn’t have about a hundred photos of his own tits in his phone taken from angles he thinks Auguste would appreciate.

He doesn’t know how to pry the words out of himself. It would be so easy to get hit in his flat by his brother. He just has to find a way to say out loud every disgusting thing he thinks.

_I thought about you every time I had sex with guys. I thought about you with some of the girls too. I want you to slap me. I want you to make me regret wanting you. I want to forget I’ve ever wanted anyone else. I haven’t. I was faking it every time._

He keeps his mouth shut. Auguste wouldn’t hurt him, the darkest of Laurent’s daydreams aside.

Auguste changes, and Laurent contemplates the fact that he’s been sleeping in Auguste’s t-shirt every night for the past three weeks and wonders what that’s going to be like now, with Auguste a handspan away in a bed not big enough for two. 

Laurent puts it on anyway, and climbs into bed. Auguste climbs in next to him a few minutes later, the bed dipping under his weight. He sleeps on his side. Laurent turns his head slightly to look at him, and finds him looking right back.

“Is that,” Auguste starts a few seconds later. He’s looking at Laurent’s chest. Not _looking._ But not _not_ looking either. “Mine?”

“Yes,” Laurent says, swallowing. “Took it out of your room when I left.”

“Mom and dad said you blocked their number.” 

Laurent no longer knows what Auguste is looking at. His eyes are so soft, though. And Laurent knows what he’s asking. _Why_ he’s asking. “I wanted you to find me,” Laurent admits. “I hoped…”

That’s too much honesty for him. He can’t go on. Auguste’s hand finds his, squeezing gently. “I would have come when you called.”

“I know.” Laurent feels too hot inside. Hot like Auguste’s hands are hot, and soft. Careful.

“Laurent,” Auguste murmurs, so gently something inside Laurent crumbles and breaks. “What were you waiting for?”

Auguste, Laurent remembers with a stinging pain in the backs of his eyes, is _always_ honest. Always _good._ And Laurent _isn’t._ There’s no good outcome to being honest with him, because Laurent’s truths will only break Auguste. Auguste does not deserve that.

He opens his mouth to make something up, but Auguste pulls him in before he can. Laurent goes still, waiting to see what Auguste is doing. What he will do.

There’s a long silence, broken only by Laurent’s shallow attempts at breathing.

“What were you waiting for?” Auguste asks again.

“I love you,” Laurent mumbles, ashamed and tired and small. He could keep lying, but this close it feels like he’d be tainting something sacred. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Laurent.” Auguste sounds tired and angry. Laurent can’t remember him ever being angry at Laurent, not even when they were children. It’s terrifying. “How do you think it _felt_ to watch you all these years?”

Laurent never thought about that. “I didn’t know you were looking.” 

Auguste groans. “I’m _always_ looking at you,” he says, and Laurent must be imagining the desperation in his voice. The heat of Auguste’s body is driving him crazy. That must be it. “You’re my little _brother_. I _have_ to look out for you.” Laurent relaxes, hating himself for even hoping.

“I can take care of myself,” he says.

“Laurent,” Auguste sighs. “Will you stop _lying_ for five fucking minutes?”

“I’m not lying,” Laurent lies.

“You starve yourself a lot for someone who can take care of himself,” Auguste snaps. “Our parents might not notice, but I’m not an idiot. You barely ate dinner. What are you _doing_?”

“You don’t want to know,” Laurent snarls, feeling like a trapped animal. He tries to wiggle free of Auguste’s grip, but it’s annoyingly firm. He slumps, heart beating too fast. He feels sick and cornered and lost. “Why do you even _care_?”

“Because I’m your brother,” Auguste snarls back. “Because I care about you. And maybe if you stopped trying to pretend you’re okay for a while you’d _let me._ ”

Laurent freezes. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t.

“Laurent?” Auguste asks. He sounds worried. Laurent tries to stay still and pretend this isn’t happening (it’s worked before) but he can’t seem to do that to Auguste. Not when Auguste is pulling him even closer, rubbing broad warm hands over Laurent’s back. It feels good. He gives in, tired of resisting. “Oh, Laurent.”

 _Don’t say my name like that,_ Laurent thinks. _I’m in love with you and you’re not helping._ He unpries his jaw and says, “I don’t know how to be taken care of.”

“I might have guessed,” Auguste snorts. “Will you let me try?”

“You’re wasting your time,” Laurent answers.

“I would waste _all_ of it on you,” Auguste says evenly. “Let me try, Laurent.”

Laurent breathes in slowly and breathes out again. Auguste is so _close_ , and Laurent has never been good at saying no to him. Would it really be so bad, anyway, to have Auguste look after him? He presses his face into Auguste’s chest and closes his eyes. “Whatever you want.”

———

Auguste stays for breakfast the next morning. The warmth of the previous night lingers in Laurent’s body, and he does not remember to worry about any of the dozen things he could worry about. He even manages to eat a couple of pancakes, before the very effort of food exhausts him enough to put everything away.

“Will you go back?” Laurent asks, standing over the sink and not daring to turn around. He doesn’t want Auguste to leave. It hurts far less to have him close than Laurent expected.

“Maybe,” Auguste replies. “But closer to Christmas. I haven’t seen you in a while. I’d rather be here.”

Laurent shivers slightly. Their parents will ask a whole lot of questions, and Auguste still mostly tells them the truth. Laurent doesn’t know what they’re going to do about that. He knows what _he’d_ do, of course, lying through his teeth is second nature to him.

What they do after breakfast is this; sit on the couch with Laurent’s laptop and watch reruns of shitty cartoons Auguste liked as a child.

And it turns out Laurent worries less when he’s constantly resisting the urge to lean over and kiss Auguste’s neck. He wonders what it would be like if he _could_ do that. Imagines himself as he’s never been; innocent and loving and untouched. If Auguste had been the first, would Laurent have been a different person now?

Wanting your own brother like that is not normal, Laurent knows. He doesn’t think he would have been a better person if Auguste had been his first. But he _wishes_ he was that person anyway.

Terrifying how he can’t separate his love for Auguste from what happened to him. Terrifying how they sometimes feel like the same thing.

Other times, though, Auguste feels like the least broken part of Laurent. Bright and shining, honest about his care and his desires. Sometimes Laurent wants to force him away simply because he’s too good to be loved by something like Laurent.

He’s still here though, despite Laurent’s best efforts. He’s here by _choice_.

Laurent reaches over and pauses the cartoon. “If I tell you something,” he starts, carefully watching Auguste for his reactions. “Do you promise not to freak out?”

“Yes,” Auguste says, serious and unhesitating. He really shouldn’t be so confident. Laurent suddenly isn’t so sure of himself. 

But Auguste keeps _his_ word, so Laurent tries to find the words inside himself. The right ones escape him, and he resorts to the kind he’d hate to hear from someone else. “Uncle touched me,” he says in a rush. “When I was—young. I don’t know. I don’t know how young, or how many times. Every time he came over, and I—” Laurent stops, frozen and hollow. “I let him.”

“ _Laurent._ ” There’s something in Auguste’s voice, and Laurent doesn’t know how to interpret it. Shock, or horror, or something else entirely. Disgust?”

“You promised not to freak out,” he says quickly.

“I did,” Auguste mumbles, like he regrets it. Then, louder, “Can I touch you?”

Laurent nods jerkily, once. Auguste’s arms come up around him, safe and warm. He doesn’t realize how cold he was until he isn’t. He rests his head against Auguste’s shoulder, still by force of will and not much else.

“Did you tell anyone?” Auguste asks. He’s only going through the motions, Laurent knows, because they both know Laurent would never tell.

He shakes his head. “You’re the first.” He forces himself to use his brain, to _think_ even though he still flinches from the memories by default. “Not since I was fourteen. The winter I cut my hair. You remember?”

“How could I forget,” Auguste says gently. “Was that why?”

“Lucky side effect,” Laurent mutters. “I’d given up on stopping him.”

Auguste’s arms tighten around him. Laurent shoves at him until he loosens them again. He hadn’t known it was true until he said it, but it sounds terrible when he puts it like that. 

“I’m sorry,” Auguste says softly. “I’m so sorry. We should’ve protected you.”

Laurent hasn’t believed that in a long time. He feels so, so _tired_. He wants Auguste to forget about this. He wants to never have said anything, so he could still be something at least a little good in his brother’s eyes.

He’s childish enough to ask for it. “Do you hate me now?” 

“ _No,_ ” Auguste says vehemently. “No, of course not. Laurent, why would I—how could I hate you? You were a _child_.”

That, of all the things that have passed between them so far, is what makes Laurent flinch. Auguste must feel it. He sighs into Laurent’s hair, and Laurent aches with shame or resentment or confused desire.

“You were a child,” he says again. “What happened was not your fault.”

Laurent’s heard that kind of thing before. It doesn’t apply to him, not really. He doesn’t know how to say that, though. _He knew I loved you. He was giving me what I wanted. But it wasn’t enough._

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Laurent sighs, pulling away. 

Auguste lets him go.

———

Laurent receives an invite to Auguste’s place for a pre-Christmas dinner party. 

He spends a few hours prepping the food he’s been asked to make, and dresses carefully. He still doesn’t know what he wants to look like, other than _pretty._ He only wants to look pretty so he has something to use against people. He doesn’t want to do that to Auguste, and it would never work anyway, so he settles on a dark blue sweater that covers every inch of skin. It’s comfortable enough to ease the hollowness inside him, just a bit.

Laurent’s only been to Auguste’s house once, when Auguste moved in. He wanted to come again, but there was never any time, and no one would have driven him. His parents didn’t trust him on a flight alone.

Laurent resents that all the way to Auguste’s place. But when he’s standing in front of Auguste’s door, he takes a deep breath and lets go of it, rings the bell.

“You’re here,” Auguste says delightedly, taking the tupperware boxes of food Laurent is holding.

“As you can see,” Laurent replies, gently mocking. If his self control was better, he’d be meaner to Auguste. Push him away a little more. But he’s helpless in love, and he can’t help the affection.

It turns out Auguste’s friends are over, which is something Auguste neglected to mention. Laurent hasn’t brought nearly enough food, which Auguste hastily tells him not to worry about (Laurent wasn’t worried, merely annoyed, but it’s charming of Auguste to think so well of him even after all this time) and spends a busy few minutes introducing Laurent to everyone. Laurent turns on the charm, knows it pleases Auguste when Laurent gets along with people.

Damianos is funny, and spends half of dinner flirting shamelessly with Laurent. Laurent encourages it, aware of the facade he’s putting up—aware that it’s thin so close to Auguste. The only thing that saves Laurent from suspicion most of the time is how unthinkable it is. He dares not risk it here.

The rest of Auguste’s friends are mostly from college or work, men and women who barely glance at Laurent before glancing again, little looks every time they think he won’t notice, trying to figure out whether he’s a guy or girl.

Auguste insistently introduces Laurent as his brother, but that doesn’t help. Laurent wants to pull him aside and tell him not to bother. But he’d give Laurent that look if he did, like a kicked puppy, and Laurent doesn’t want to put that look on his brother’s face tonight.

The freedom of a dinner party without his uncle or parents nearby hits Laurent halfway through dinner, and he leans over the table and begins to flirt back at Damianos.

He can do _anything_ he wants, here. He probably won’t see most of these people more than twice a year, if that. His brother is nearby, which means he’s as safe as he ever is. More than that, he will _notice_ if Laurent goes missing. Laurent feels dizzy and light on the opportunity.

Auguste is looking at him as he flirts back. Laurent’s never seen that look on his face before, but it gives him goosebumps. He smiles tentatively and turns away, relieved, when Auguste smiles back. But his eyes are still on Laurent as they both talk to other people. If anyone notices, they give no sign.

The party wears thin after dinner. Auguste drags half a dozen people into an argument about some trivial aspect of engineering, passionate and knowledgeable and effortlessly charismatic.

Damianos finds his way to Laurent, holding two flutes of champagne. “Want some?”

Laurent does. He’s a little too young for it, but no one would tell. “Got bored of the engineering argument?” he inquires of Damianos.

“Was never into it,” Damianos says cheerfully. “I’m a biophysicist.”

“You look like a model,” Laurent replies, and then begins giggling helplessly into his champagne. “That was _horrible_ —you probably get it a lot.”

“Rarely from other models,” Damianos grins. Laurent grins back.

Then he looks back at where his brother is still arguing, now using three books stacked in angles against each other to prove a point. The light glides over his blond hair, lingering on the planes of his face.

“Do you think he’s right?” Damianos asks. “Your brother, I mean. Whatever they’re arguing about.”

“Yes,” Laurent says.

“I don’t,” Damianos continues. “He’s a bit overconfident about his statements. Sounds like he’s trying too hard.”

Laurent tries to imagine that. “He’s _not_ ,” he fumbles, and takes a few inadvisable sips of the champagne. “He doesn’t _do_ that kind of thing.” His face feels hot.

Damianos is looking at him sidelong. “You really love each other, huh.”

There’s no point hiding from it. Laurent gives up. “ _I_ love him,” he says waveringly.

“Pretty sure he loves you too,” Damianos notes casually. “He talks about you quite a bit. He thinks you’re smarter than him.”

“Well,” Laurent mutters. “He’s always been a bit stupid about _some_ things.” Like believing Laurent was good, despite every evidence to the contrary. Even so, sometimes it felt like he knew Laurent better than everyone else. Maybe he saw things Laurent himself couldn’t. He clung to that hope more than was good.

“You really love him,” Damianos says wonderingly, like it isn’t obvious. Laurent does not reply.

He wanders up to the next floor after Damianos goes away to get a refill of champagne. Auguste’s bedroom is here, as well as a study and a guest bedroom. There’s another on the floor below; Laurent saw it earlier.

He spends some time flipping through the books—largely dense texts, with a couple of shelves dedicated to the kind of fiction Auguste likes. Science fiction, mostly.

Laurent grabs a book at random and lets his feet carry him to Auguste’s bedroom, sitting down on the bed and reading random pages. He’s too tired to follow the plot, but he gets absorbed somewhere after chapter eight.

The door opens, startling Laurent. He hides the book behind his back on reflex, relaxing when he sees Auguste. “You shocked me,” he tells Auguste.

“Laurent,” Auguste says, and then nothing else. Laurent takes a closer look at him.

He’s been drinking—his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is messier than it was when Laurent last saw him. And he’s _looking_ at Laurent, looking at him like he was earlier but sharper and more intense without other people around. Laurent looks away, confused.

But then Auguste is in front of him, looming. Laurent opens his mouth to ask a question, but not before Auguste kneels in front of him. Laurent’s too shocked to go on.

He reaches out hesitantly, putting his hands in Auguste’s soft hair. Combing lightly through it in a way he hasn’t in years. It’s as soft as he remembers, maybe softer. Auguste is still looking at him, gentler now. Too tender to be real.

“What are we doing?” Laurent whispers.

“Whatever you want,” Auguste replies. The words sink through Laurent, unfamiliar and bright. Honest. Auguste has never lied to him. 

So Laurent leans down to press their mouths together. It hurts, like falling into the ocean would hurt. And it feels so _good._ Laurent is breaking everything in the ways he promised himself he never would. He can’t seem to stop.

Auguste kisses back. His mouth is hot and soft and he knows what he’s doing and he seems to know exactly what Laurent likes, or maybe what Laurent likes is anything Auguste gives him.

Either way, he loses himself. He isn’t thinking when he pulls back for air, resting his forehead against Auguste’s, staring into the deep rich grey of his eyes. He feels like he’s burning up under the force of his own love and desire. There’s nothing unkind in Auguste’s eyes to cut through that.

“I want this,” Laurent hears himself say.

“I was watching you,” Auguste breathes back. “All night. I couldn’t bear it. You looking at anyone but me. I never—” his voice cracks. “I shouldn’t care. But I do. I can’t _stop._ I’m so _sorry_ , Laurent.”

Laurent doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for and cares less. “Come here,” he demands, at the end of his patience, and Auguste comes.

He’s hasty and rude about Laurent’s clothes, and Laurent returns the favor eagerly. Fixes his mouth to the curve of Auguste’s throat he’s always dreamed of, the perfect taste of the skin there. He can’t stop sweeping his hands over Auguste’s body—his arms, his shoulders, his stomach. His fingers are shaking, and he wants to do this forever, explore greedily every inch of skin until there’s no secrets for him to uncover.

The first secret is this; Auguste groans when Laurent touches his thigh. Laurent is wet and hot and _aches_ with desire like he’s never felt for another person.

Auguste is careful about touching back. Laurent wants him not to be, but he shudders when Auguste presses trailing butterfly kisses from his shoulder down his arm, whines when Auguste cups his breasts in hot gentle hands, nearly cries with love when Auguste is holding him down.

Instead he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Auguste’s hair, bringing his mouth down for another bruising kiss that lights up every dark corner of Laurent’s body. 

“There’s condoms in the side drawer,” Auguste whispers as he’s pulling away. His voice is hoarse. Laurent gives him a look that’s probably pure longing, and turns to retrieve the condoms. “Get the lube, too,” Auguste orders. “We’re doing this right if we do it.”

Laurent rolls his eyes a little. Hands both to Auguste, and settles in to watch him work.

He’s wet enough that it wouldn’t matter if Auguste fucked him just like this. At least, it wouldn’t matter in the way Auguste is worried about. Laurent likes pain.

But Auguste is kissing his neck again, mouthing at his breasts and nipples for a moment so long Laurent whines impatiently before moving down to his stomach. It’s too late by the time Laurent catches on to what’s happening, stomach clenching in shock and greedy lust when the realization hits. The first sweep of Auguste’s tongue over his hot cunt has him moaning. The last person who did this was mediocre in every other way, and Laurent still liked it. When Auguste does it, it’s impossible to withstand.

When did Auguste get so _good_ at this? Laurent is fisting one hand in the bedsheets before long, the other thrown over his eyes. Auguste is relentless, tongue alternating between fucking so deep inside Laurent he wants to cry, and sucking at his clit. It feels wonderful, more wonderful than Laurent was built to take.

He comes with a sharp little cry, shaking with the aftermath. His whole body feels light and hot and drenched in sugar and still it’s not _enough._ He wants Auguste inside him.

He wants to feel complete, the way he was meant to.

“Please,” Laurent whimpers, and Auguste is gathering him up again, pulling him close. Stroking Laurent’s back while Laurent presses up against him and shivers. “Take off your pants,” he growls in Auguste’s ear, and Auguste complies with a short laugh.

“Brat,” he says affectionately. Laurent blinks at him and blushes. He looks down instead and— _oh._ Auguste has no right to have a dick that pretty when the rest of him is so good-looking too. Laurent wants to get to his knees and worship it for the rest of his life.

The urge sickens him, worsening when he remembers where it comes from. “Laurent?” Auguste asks. “Do you want me to stop?”

Laurent shakes his head. “I just,” he starts, and bursts into tears. He feels so _cold,_ suddenly. And he doesn’t want _this_ to be what his first time with Auguste is like. He wants it to be _good_. He can’t bear the idea of disappointing Auguste. He wipes hastily at his eyes. “I’m okay,” he tries to say reassuringly.

Auguste is near enough that Laurent can still feel the heat radiating off of him. He’s also clearly worried, and _there’s_ that kicked-puppy look Laurent hates. “You’re not,” Auguste says gently.

“I want you to fuck me,” Laurent wails, pressing his face into Auguste’s shoulder to hide it. “I don’t want to think about anything else. I don’t want there to _be_ anything else. I’m tired. I just want to _like_ something. Why can’t I just let it _go_?”

“Laurent,” Auguste snaps, making him flinch. “I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Laurent sniffles. He can’t stop thinking about being too young to know what was happening, and hating it anyway, and going along with it because he didn’t know better. Hates himself for ever being that stupid. Hates everything that happened, his uncle and his fucking parents. Hates that he can’t even think about wanting to get his mouth on Auguste’s dick without melting down.

“Okay,” Auguste says, in his bad-liar voice. Laurent glances at him, half-afraid of his anger on top of everything else.

“We don’t have to stop,” he tries.

Auguste tenses. “We’re not going on tonight,” he says firmly. That’s his older-brother voice, and somehow it helps Laurent remember where he is. Remember he’s far away from anything that could hurt him.

It helps a little. “Do you hate me?” Laurent asks. It’s childish, to keep needing reassurance.

“No,” Auguste says. “Myself, a little. But not _you_ , Laurent. Never you.”

Laurent doesn’t want Auguste to hate himself. But he’s too tired to argue about it. He leans against Auguste, shivering and numb. “Can I sleep here?”

“Always,” Auguste answers tenderly.

The truth of it settles around Laurent. Auguste is good to everyone, even to him. Laurent hasn’t trusted another person in a long time, but Auguste is every shining reason to surrender himself to someone who would keep him safe. It’s hard, but it’s harder to resist. He wants to be comforted.

Laurent closes his eyes, breathing through the dull hammering of memories, and relaxes at last.

———

They spend New Year’s all by themselves. Auguste drives home on boxing day, and Laurent stares out of the window at the snowstorm and thinks about experimenting with Christmas cookies. He can make a mess. No one would know..

But he misses Auguste like a limb. The handful of days they sneaked together before Auguste left haven’t been enough to sate Laurent, and he _wants._ He wants all the time.

Laurent still can’t believe he gets to have this. That it’s real. He texts Auguste when he can and lies in bed when he isn’t baking. Auguste’s bed, that smells like him. They had sex here for the first time, and again the next morning when Auguste pulled Laurent so close to himself their skin felt seared together, kissing bruises into his neck and shoulders while pressing gentle capable fingers into Laurent’s cunt. He’d gotten three fingers in before he let Laurent come. Just thinking about it makes Laurent ache.

When he gets tired of lying in bed he uses Auguste’s laptop, searching up sex toys on a whim. Most of them are too garish to appeal—he toyed with someone in high school who’d owned a bullet vibrator and found the experience largely not for him.

Maybe he _is_ broken. Most people seem to think sex toys are the answer to all their problems. For Laurent, it’s his brother.

The thought amuses him for a couple of seconds before the guilt sets in.

He keeps looking, though, and ends up finding a pair of steel nipple clamps that look interestingly torturous. Not the kind of thing Laurent would buy for himself, but he orders it with vague notions of Auguste making him wear them while he eats Laurent out.

Or—but Laurent can’t go there yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to.

Auguste could _make_ him go there. The thought frightens Laurent so badly he nicks the extra keys to the house from the drawer and returns to his own apartment, pacing for hours until his calves hurt and he’s shaking with cold and hunger. No takeout places are open on fucking Christmas Day—and isn’t it just hilarious that Laurent is spending Christmas alone _again,_ like he has every year before for some reason or another. He only ever had dinner with his family. No amount of brotherly love will keep him company _today._

He waits until nightfall to catch a cab back to Auguste’s house, lets himself in, and is greeted with a charred mess in the oven he forgot to turn off before running away—he’s damned lucky the timer went off before the whole thing caught on fire—and definitely cold Christmas cookies he meant to decorate.

It’s pathetic to decorate them alone, Laurent decides, and dunks them in sugar frosting and eats them before they set. It isn’t dinner, but it lets him fall into bed and have uneasy dreams of hands all over him.

The next day, Auguste is back. He must have left horribly early to arrive just after lunchtime, bearing boxes of leftovers. Of course their parents saddle _Auguste_ with leftovers.

Laurent’s lunch plans had been to eat more cookies. It’s nice to have proper food.

“I’m sorry,” Auguste says earnestly after lunch. Laurent blinks at him.

“What?” he says politely.

Auguste’s look turns gentle, nearly pitying. Laurent stuffs a piece of chicken in his mouth and chews loudly to break the moment. “You were alone on Christmas,” Auguste tells him at last.

“Yeah,” Laurent agrees. “Like always.” He grabs another bite of chicken. It’s really good chicken, not that he’ll ever tell his mom that.

Now Auguste looks even more guilty. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“Don’t be silly,” Laurent replies calmly. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten all this food.” He wishes he didn’t have to say these things. He can’t ever hurt his brother, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a part of him that wants to scream. _Did you look our parents in the eye and wish them a fucking merry Christmas? Did they wish you back? Did our uncle get you a gift? What did you do with it? Did anyone ask about me?_

He keeps it locked inside himself. He doesn’t care. He won’t stoop that low. Not that there’s any moral high ground to be claimed after fucking half your family.

“Laurent,” Auguste sighs. Laurent starts to glare, but Auguste is getting up from his chair. “I got you something.” He half-sprints out of the room. Laurent contemplates his ass. He also contemplates the fact that _he_ hasn’t gotten Auguste anything. Except a court case, possibly.

Auguste comes back with a long flat gift-wrapped rectangle and a pair of scissors. Laurent ignores the latter and tears the former open with ruthless efficiency.

It’s a set of watercolor paints. Expensive and lovely. Laurent traces a finger over the clear cover and struggles not to cry. He used to like painting, long before he stopped liking anything. He didn’t know Auguste remembered, and it makes him burn to know Auguste put thought into this gift.

He elects, in the end, to hug Auguste without meeting his eyes, clinging to him hard enough to hurt and hopefully enough to convey how grateful Laurent is. “I didn’t get you anything,” he says when he pulls away. 

He thinks of the nipple clamps, though. He thinks about Auguste _making him._ He doesn’t know if Auguste would be into that. 

Laurent is, if it’s his brother. His brother is the only person he’s wanted to give himself over to.

“Next year,” Auguste replies cheerfully. He’s smiling, and looking at him makes Laurent want to curl up at his feet and let Auguste kick him to pieces. He doesn’t know where the urge to be broken by Auguste comes from. As far as he’s concerned, it’s always been a part of him.

“Would you like to fuck me?” Laurent blurts out.

Auguste stares at him. “I don’t want you paying me back with sex,” he says, clear and cuttingly cold. So cold Laurent wants to run away and hide.

“That’s not how I meant it,” Laurent mumbles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Oh, Laurent.” Auguste sounds so sad. Laurent made him sad. Laurent’s going to leech him dry one day, and Auguste is nice enough to let him. If he was smart he’d kick Laurent out right now, but Laurent doesn’t _want_ to be kicked out. He wants to have been better, right from the start, impossible as that is. “Laurent. I’m sorry too. I never want you to think you owe me anything. Laurent, please look at me.”

Laurent looks at him. He doesn’t know he ever looked away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, just to be sure. 

Auguste hugs him. He’s warm and solid and he manages to make Laurent feel safe and—and no one has hurt him with Auguste in the house. It was only after Auguste left. Everyone knew Laurent would tell Auguste anything and everything.

“What would you have done?” Laurent asks, words muffled. “If you’d known what was happening to me? If I’d told you?”

“ _Fuck_ , I don’t know. I might’ve killed him. I wanted to kill him last night, but he never turned up.”

“Oh.” Laurent’s surprised. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It makes sense, even as it makes him sick. “Well, I guess there was no point without me arou—”

“Shut up,” Auguste growls. “Or I might have to go kill him right _now_.”

Laurent peers up at him. “I wouldn’t tell if you did,” he murmurs, sweet and seductive. He hates thinking about his uncle, but the thought of him dead by Auguste’s hand is alluring. 

Auguste kisses him, deep and rough and _angry_ , so angry Laurent giggles into his mouth. Reaches up to curl his fingers in Auguste’s hair, holding him close. The discomfort from earlier lingers, but it’s melting rapidly under Auguste’s attention, and all Laurent can think of is _this._ Auguste taking what he wants from Laurent, and giving him _everything_ in return. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers into Auguste’s mouth. Auguste pulls away slightly, staring at him. Laurent swallows. “I want it. I want it from you.”

“Okay,” Auguste exhales. “But I’m not going to go on if I think something is wrong.”

Laurent feels a rush of affection, warm and golden-red. That Auguste knows Laurent can’t tell him, and is willing to try anyway.

Auguste picks him up easily, effortlessly. Laurent’s thrown back to being younger and begging Auguste to lift him again and again—maybe it’s a mark of how fucked up he is that the memory comforts him at the same time that it excites him—he’d never have predicted this as a child.

Just like he’d never have predicted Auguste nuzzling into his chest, kissing his jaw, laughter rumbling in his chest. He’d never have predicted how Auguste made him feel _light._

He’s buzzing inside by the time Auguste tosses him into bed—he handles Laurent like a beloved doll, and it delights every part of Laurent down to the soles of his feet. He’s smiling as Auguste takes his clothes off, and then Laurent’s.

Then he stands back, surveying Laurent with an almost hungry expression on his face. Laurent flushes slightly, conscious of every inch of bared skin. Auguste’s eyes are on his chest, and—Laurent knows his breasts aren’t that big, really, but _he’s_ small enough that they seem bigger on him. Laurent doesn’t know what Auguste thinks about that. “You’re so—”

Laurent tilts his head. “I’m so what?” he demands.

“ _Pretty._ ” Auguste shakes his head. “You probably don’t want to hear that, though. You must get it enough already.”

“Not from you,” Laurent breathes. “You can call me whatever you want.”

The thought makes him blanch, though; he messed around too much in school, too recklessly. There were always rumours floating around, people calling him a slut behind his back. Like there was nothing else to him.

But he imagines the word in Auguste’s deep gentle voice, and it’s just _hot._ Because it’s Auguste, and everything is different with Auguste.

“You don’t mean that,” Auguste frowns.

“I will tell you when it stops being true,” Laurent rolls his eyes. “Stop talking and _fuck me_ already.”

“Brat,” Auguste informs him. 

He kisses Laurent before Laurent can respond, deep and sweet and perfect. His body radiates heat as he pins Laurent down with it, slipping a hand between them to press over Laurent’s aching cunt over his panties. And god, Laurent _wants._ “Look how wet I am for you,” he whispers against Auguste’s mouth. “You could take me just like this. It wouldn’t hurt at all.”

“Laurent,” Auguste rasps. His fingers flex against Laurent’s stomach, and he arches into it with a pleased sound. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You better fuck me before then,” Laurent tells him. But he shudders when Auguste moves off of him to grab condoms, leaving his overheated skin prone to the winter-sharp air. “You didn’t come last time we fucked.”

“I’m not counting,” Auguste says, returning with his prize. No lube, Laurent notes with satisfaction. “I did jerk off in the shower the next morning.” He peers down at Laurent. “Is that alright?”

“Tell me what you’re doing next time,” Laurent responds, propping himself up on one elbow to watch hungrily as Auguste rolls the condom over his obscenely pretty cock. “I’ll send you a photo of my tits. Since you seem to like them so much.”

Auguste has the gall to look shocked. “You don’t have to.”

Laurent wonders when, if ever, it’ll be appropriate to tell Auguste the number of photos he’s already taken with Auguste in mind. “Do you want them?”

“Oh my god,” Auguste says roughly. He’s eyeing Laurent’s chest again. “Of course I do.”

“Then I will,” Laurent rolls his eyes and falls back onto the bed, directing an imperious stare up at Auguste.

Auguste shakes his head, leaning down to kiss Laurent’s knee. Laurent jerks, caught off-guard. It’s so oddly tender that it makes him feel defenseless. But then, that’s how Auguste seems to like him.

He breathes through the panic and Auguste keeps kissing him, mouthing gently at the soft inside of Laurent’s thighs.

Laurent closes his eyes, unable to bear the onslaught. Care undoes him faster than anything. 

So it’s a shock when Auguste’s cock presses against his cunt. He makes a helpless little sound, shocked and needy. He’s only gotten wetter as Auguste kissed him.

“Still alright?” Auguste murmurs. Laurent nods, reaching blindly forward until Auguste’s hands find his and lace in. it’s easier to bear like this, Auguste stroking the backs of his fingers and talking calmly at him while he pushes inside Laurent.

He’s so big it feels like it never ends; it’s overwhelming. Somewhere Laurent thinks he doesn’t _want_ it to end, even though it’s already too much. He wants Auguste to fuck him so hard he forgets himself entirely. He squeezes at Auguste’s hands and hears someone whining, realizes it’s himself when the sound cuts off abruptly as Auguste fills him completely.

“You really are so good for me,” Auguste tells him. Laurent blinks at him through tear-stained lashes. “You took me so well right now, Laurent.”

Laurent dissolves into tears entirely, shakes his head frantically when Auguste asks him if he wants to stop. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to be fucked until he can’t remember a thing. “It’s okay,” Laurent repeats over and over again, and it _is._ It’s just also too much.

Thankfully, Auguste complies, leaning over Laurent again to blanket him with his body as he thrusts inside, deep and achingly _slow._ Laurent doesn’t know how he does it.

He only knows that it feels incredible, Auguste’s cock thick and unbearably hot inside him. Laurent tightens around it just to feel the strain, unable to think past the way pain lights him up sweet or Auguste’s hungry low growls against his chest. Laurent lets go of Auguste’s hand to reach up and twine that hand in his hair, scratching gently and encouragingly until Auguste’s thrusts lose their perfectly steady rhythm.

Laurent doesn’t think he can come just from this, but he holds Auguste close and doesn’t remember how anything could feel _better_ than this.

“Inside me,” Laurent pleads. “Auguste, Auguste, _please_.”

“God,” Auguste hisses. “ _Laurent_.” And then he’s coming, holding onto Laurent so hard it’s almost painful. Laurent kisses his damp temples and hums, terribly pleased with himself. Auguste goes limp on top of him, obnoxiously heavy now that he isn’t putting any effort into holding himself up. “Gimme a minute,” he groans.

“Take your time,” Laurent says, amused. His voice is also hoarse. “You don’t have to. You drove all the way here, and I’ll keep.” It’s not that he doesn’t want it. There’s just something about the idea of waiting on Auguste that leaves him feeling crushed in the best possible way.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Auguste yawns. “What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t even make you come?”

“Tired?” Laurent suggests, thrilled by the acknowledgement of their relationship.

He shoves Auguste off of him, curling immediately into his side. He’s still soft and high on the aftermath of being fucked so well he’ll be able to feel it for a day. Mellow enough for courage to set in, to ask, “Is that how you think of me? As your brother?”

Auguste stares at him, mouth slightly open. “Uh,” he starts, and then licks his lips. Laurent is beginning to regret saying anything. “Well, obviously not _exactly._ ”

“Elaborate,” Laurent demands.

“ _You_ go first,” Auguste says at once.

“I _asked_ first!”

“Little siblings don’t get rights. You go first.”

“ _No_.”

There’s a brief pause, as Auguste processes whatever fear he just heard in Laurent’s voice. Then he throws an arm around Laurent, and Laurent manages to relax slightly, hiding his face in Auguste’s chest. “Clearly I want to fuck you,” Auguste says, his voice rumbling through Laurent. “And…” He swallows. “You’re everything to me. You always have been. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s changed between us even with this. I can’t remember wanting you like this but I can’t imagine not—do you know what I mean?”

And Laurent _does._ He knows exactly what Auguste is talking about. “I feel like a part of you,” he admits. “Like you’re the only person who’s real or can touch me—or, or the only person who _means_ anything. Like everybody else can’t hold a candle to you.”

“ _Yeah._ Just like that.” 

“There’s something wrong with me,” Laurent mumbles. He can’t hold back the words with Auguste right here. “Our uncle could see it. He knew. About me. That I liked you.”

“That long ago?” Auguste sounds surprised. “And anyway, that’s a shitty excuse.”

Laurent almost manages to smile. “Always, Auguste. All my life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Auguste replies. “Not in this, Laurent. Not when I can’t hold myself back either.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Laurent says cheekily, to cover the love welling up in him. “When was the first time? That you looked at me like—like _that_?”

“Oh god,” Auguste snorts. “You don’t want to know.”

“Now I’m _asking._ ”

Auguste laughs. “The first time—you wouldn’t remember this. You’d just cut your hair for the first time, and it was New Year’s, and I was drinking eggnog and so were you even though you were way too young. You couldn’t stay up until midnight, though, so you made me carry you to bed and then sleep there with you so you wouldn’t have to face the new year alone. Your words, not mine.”

Laurent doesn’t remember, but he blushes. “I can’t believe I didn’t give myself away sooner.”

“You kept saying you loved me,” Auguste grins. “I figured it just meant—that. And I didn’t know I thought of you like that. I only figured it out later.”

Laurent whines, embarrassed, and refuses to look up at all. Auguste’s hand settles on his side, stroking lightly. It doesn’t tickle, in the same way his own hand wouldn’t tickle.

“The second time,” Auguste continues. “Easter, you were seventeen—are you sure you want to hear this?” Laurent hesitates for half a second before nodding firmly. “—you were decorating eggs alone because you didn’t want to talk to mom and dad, and you had on this lovely blue dress. Low cut—”

“Do you want me to leave you alone with my boobs?” Laurent asks archly. He’s amused despite himself, layered over the bitterness at how he remembers the dress and not Auguste carrying him up to bed. What surprises him is that none of the bitterness is at Auguste for finding him attractive in a dress. He knows he is. It’s kind of nice to know Auguste would like him no matter what he wore.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Auguste replies primly.

Laurent punches him in the side.

———

Laurent’s day job at the coffee shop resumes in the first week of the year, and he returns to his flat to cut down on travel time even though Auguste offers to drive him every morning. He kisses Auguste on the cheek after breakfast and leaves, practically emitting light.

So much so that one of the juniors on shift comments on it. “You look like you got laid,” Nicaise snipes, knocking deliberately against him on his way to the sink.

“Worry about your own nonexistent sex life,” Laurent sneers back calmly. Nicaise is a lot more bark than bite, and privately Laurent worries about him. He knows that pattern of inappropriate familiarity and desperation for attention, and what he’s heard of Nicaise’s home life isn’t very encouraging. Nevertheless, Nicaise would hate him for worrying, so Laurent dishes back almost as good as he gets and glares at customers who look at Nicaise a little too long.

They work just fine together, Nicaise manning the machines while Laurent takes over customer service.

“Did you actually get laid?” Nicaise asks when they’re both on break. Laurent is dissecting a bagel before consumption. “It’s just, you’ve been here for a while. I’ve never seen you come in so _happy_.” He sounds massively weirded out.

Laurent leans forward and smiles his most angelic smile. “None of your business,” he says crisply.

“Fine, if you’re gonna be like that,” Nicaise says sulkily.

He doesn’t talk to Laurent for the rest of the shift. Laurent tells himself he doesn’t mind, but he stares at Nicaise’s back and wishes he’d learnt how to help people.

It’s just beginning to snow as Laurent walks home, and he quickens his steps. When he gets there, there’s a package waiting on his doorstep. He picks up the nondescript box, puzzles over it while he unlocks the door.

Three steps into his apartment he remembers ordering the nipple clamps and nearly drops the package in startlement. He doesn’t drop it, merely deposits it on the couch and goes into the small kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. He returns and approaches the package with deliberate casualness. It exists, innocuously. He avoids looking directly at it, scrolling through his messages.

Auguste has sent him a selfie; he’s wearing glasses in it, and holding up a mug of what looks like coffee. Laurent rolls his eyes, melting with affection, and saves the photo to his phone.

Then, unable to make himself wait any longer, he rips open the package.

The clamps are even worse-looking when he’s holding them in his hands than on a screen—he can feel the very real weight of the metal, and it’s unnerving to think that they’re somehow meant to be _bearable._

Laurent’s never identified himself as a masochist, one way or another, but there’s something intriguing about it nevertheless. Pain for its own sake, pure and perfectly pointless.

Or for Auguste’s sake, which is even more appealing.

He clamps one down on his finger, and hisses at the feeling. Suffers it for as long as he can before taking it off.

There’s a thin silvery chain in the package when he pokes further into it, along with instructions on washing and drying the clamps. They’re stainless steel, but he reads them diligently and then tucks them into the drawer of the dressing table without exploring further.

Laurent spends the rest of the day watching arthouse films and eating popcorn.

Auguste calls him before he’s about to stumble to bed. “Hello,” he says, sounding distracted.

“Hello,” Laurent says. “Are you doing something?”

“No—keep the change—ordered pizza for dinner. It came just after I rang you.”

“Care to bring it over?” Laurent’s being flippant. He doesn’t really expect his brother to drive half an hour at nine pm. He doesn’t expect Auguste to say _yes._ He sighs loudly. “You’re an idiot. I was joking, and you probably don’t have enough.”

“I’ll pick up more on the way,” Auguste says relentlessly. “Have you eaten already?”

Laurent’s gaze drifts to the kitchen. Then to his bedroom. “Only popcorn.”

Auguste clicks his tongue. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

He’s there in forty-five minutes, a span of time Laurent uses to wander down to the corner store and get a few cans of cream soda. Auguste likes it, and always forgets he likes it. Laurent fell in love with it mostly because it was what Auguste always ordered for him when the adults were drinking alcohol and Laurent was still too young.

They eat while Laurent talks about the films he was watching and Auguste fills him in on his day at work. The conversation trails into lazy kissing on Laurent’s too-small couch, Laurent pressed up against the back and Auguste’s weight warm and comforting against him.

 _I bought nipple clamps. They’re in my drawer—_ the words almost slip out of him. He’s never quite brave enough, though, and there’s always another kiss waiting for his lying mouth.

They don’t go far, but Auguste slips his hands under Laurent’s sweater and slides them behind his back to unhook his bra, almost frantic to get his hands on Laurent’s tits. Laurent succumbs to it, heat melting in his stomach and pulsing in his cunt, clenching greedily around nothing. Auguste pinches his nipples until he’s sobbing into Auguste’s mouth, oversensitive and wound up so tight it _burns_.

He shoves Auguste off of him a few minutes later. “You have work tomorrow,” he says severely. “Go home.” But god, Laurent’s still so wet it hurts. He doesn’t _want_ Auguste to go. He wants Auguste to fuck him into the mattress and keep using him afterwards.

But there’s a thin satisfaction to self-control that Laurent learnt over four years fending for himself, and he won't forget it so easily.

Auguste kisses him in the doorway while Laurent is still buzzing, a gentle kind of wrecking. Laurent leans against the wall after he’s gone, electrified and exhausted, and stumbles into bed without changing.

He has the usual run of nightmares at night; by morning all his desire to touch himself is gone. But he stares at himself naked in the shower for a long moment, the handprints on his side and his still-puffy nipples. Walks out of the bathroom naked to grab his phone and click a quick photo in the mirror.

That one gets deleted, as does the next. He grits his teeth and tugs at his nipples until they’re reddened and sore again, and clicks another photo with shaky hands.

He sends it uncaptioned before he can second-guess himself, and regrets it a little as he’s getting dressed—he’s going to be chafing under his shirt all day, and he could have sent any one of the older photos he has.

It’s worth it an hour later, when Auguste sends back _you’re a menace._

 _Maybe. Are you complaining?_ Laurent replies. It’s a slow morning, and he can text at work. Pause to breathe through the discomfort.

_I should’ve fucked it out of you last night._

Laurent imagines Auguste at a desk, shivers, and puts his phone in his pocket.

Neither of them manage any time to see each other for most of the next two weeks. Laurent tries on the clamps by himself and hates them, takes them off and returns to them the next day. It’s turning into a bit of an obsession, the way he _can’t_ bear the feeling no matter how he tries, and how he can’t stop wanting it either.

He doesn’t know what he gets out of it. He’s _always_ a little sore from the constant attempts, and that’s not even the worst part. Sometimes he thinks about asking Auguste for help with it, because if Auguste held him and calmed him down he’s sure he could take more.

But something always stops him. Or maybe he just likes suffering. Likes it more for the way he’s nerveless and hollow afterwards, turned on but made helpless by pain.

Auguste invites him out for dinner one Friday, and Laurent’s too shocked processing that Auguste wants to be seen in public with him to remember to reply. Auguste calls him that night, and they talk about nothing at all for a long time. Laurent ends up saying yes. He’s too greedy to turn Auguste down.

It’s one of those days where Laurent doesn’t care if people see him as a guy. They happen with increasing frequency now that he’s left home. Laurent doesn’t know how to think about it but leaves off the binder, picking out a dark grey turtleneck and jeans that hug his legs.

He slips the clamps and chain into the pocket that doesn’t have his phone, shaking slightly with nerves. He’s only just worked his way up to keeping them on for fifteen minutes at a time.

Auguste is already at the table when Laurent gets there. “You look lovely,” he says at once.

Laurent smirks. Auguste isn’t staring at his chest, but it’s clearly hard on him. “You look nice too,” he replies. And Auguste _does_ —he’s wearing a dark grey suit, casual enough to not be overbearing.

Auguste grins, clearly pleased.

The waitress arrives a couple minutes later for their drink orders.

“Water,” Auguste says quickly.

“And for you, ma’am?”

Auguste opens his mouth to correct her, but Laurent doesn’t care tonight. “Also water,” he says crisply. “Thank you.” Auguste shuts his mouth, frowning. “It’s fine, Auguste,” Laurent sighs.

“But—”

“Just for tonight, it’s _fine._ ” He slips his hand into his pocket and plucks out the clamps, sliding them across the table as a distraction.

It takes Auguste a split second to figure out what they are, during which time they lie innocuously on the table, glinting in the tasteful lighting. Then Auguste’s eyes widen sharply, and he snatches them off. “When did you get these?”

“Recently,” Laurent says evasively. Leans forward. “You can put them on me tonight if you’re nice to me.”

“Fuck,” Auguste hisses, fervent. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

His eyes don’t leave Laurent for the rest of the evening, barely pulling away even to order food. Laurent doesn’t care; he loves the attention far too much. He loves how Auguste stares at him like he’s imagining taking Laurent apart.

So he plays into it, looks Auguste in the eye while he takes a bite of Auguste’s steak off his fork, licks sauce off his own finger and tilts his head back to drink.

Dinner lasts forever. Courses and conversation blur by Laurent without leaving an impression.

He blinks and they’re getting up at last, Auguste smiling with strained politeness at the waitress while she counts out change, tosses down a substantial tip before practically dragging Laurent out. “You were _killing_ me,” Auguste snarls in his ear.

“Yeah?” Laurent feels high and empty, dizzy with need. “Are you going to make me sorry?”

“I’m going to _break_ you,” Auguste growls. Laurent smiles dazedly at him.

It’s not a long drive back to Auguste’s place, but it feels like forever. They don’t touch at all, like Auguste is afraid he’ll lose control entirely if he does.

Laurent loves the taste of power.

He loves it even more when Auguste slams him back against the door the second they’re inside his house, pinning Laurent against the wall. His breaths are harsh and fast, his grip tight.

“Well?” Laurent asks, tilting his head up. “Are you going to do anything?”

“Gonna fuck you,” Auguste says thickly. Laurent wraps an arm around his back and pulls him closer, close enough to feel the bulge in Auguste’s dress pants against Laurent’s body, and grinds deliberately into it.

It’s all a blur after that, Laurent’s thoughts dissolving into the sense memory of tight hands on his body, the rustle of cloth, the smell of Auguste’s cologne, their fraying control.

Not that Laurent wants to think about _that_ right now, but—all the sex he had before Auguste, he couldn’t ever let himself forget where he was or what he was doing. He could never relax enough to enjoy it.

And right now he’s all trust and surrender and it’s _easy_ because it’s Auguste, who is in his blood. Who will never hurt him.

He gasps and squirms when he’s in Auguste’s lap, his cock thick and hard trapped between their bodies. Laurent can feel the heat of it like a brand against his cunt; he bites his lips and barely manages to drag his eyes away, desire pulsing in his stomach.

Auguste dug the clamps and chain out of his pocket before he took off his pants—he’s holding them in his hand right now. “Still want these?” he asks.

“‘Course I do,” Laurent breathes.

“Have you done this before?”

“I tried them on,” Laurent admits, but doesn’t elaborate. 

Auguste’s eyes flash with heat even as he places a hand gently on Laurent’s spine, using the other to push Laurent back. Laurent tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He has no idea what he looks like to Auguste right now, but judging by the way Auguste’s cock jerks against him, it’s good. Good enough.

“Tell me how you tried them out,” Auguste orders.

Laurent blinks at the ceiling, overwhelmed and trying to remember. Trying to gather the words. “I—mostly by myself. After I showered every morning, I’d put them on. And keep them on for as long as I could.”

“How long was that?” Auguste trails the clamps down Laurent’s arm, half-promise.

Laurent shivers. “Not very long. Fifteen—fifteen minutes at most. I tried for _weeks_ , Auguste—I could never do it. It hurts so _much_.”

“And you're still letting me do this?” Auguste rasps, sounding hungry for the answer.

“Yes,” Laurent breathes. “Of course. You could make me do anything you liked. I want it. I want it from _you_.”

Auguste doesn't reply, and he stops playing around with the clamps.

The first moment of pain is the worst, and then the second is more excruciating still. Laurent whines, low and broken, in the back of his throat—Auguste judges him for it less than he himself would. And then the pain evens out, still on the wrong side of bearable but so good anyway that Laurent doesn’t care. He doesn’t _know_ why it’s better when Auguste is with him. Maybe it’s just the comfort of having him near, of knowing that he’ll catch Laurent whenever he falls.

“You’re beautiful,” Auguste says, raw and painfully sweet, and Laurent makes another odd little sound. “You take it so _well,_ Laurent.”

Laurent nods, unable to respond in any meaningful way. The pain is hazing him out in a way it never did when he was by himself. Enveloping his mind in thick golden syrup, narrowing his attention to Auguste and every point where he’s touching Laurent.

“Please,” Laurent whimpers. The pain throbs inside him, rising and falling with his heartbeat, and it's so _much_. Laurent doesn't know what to do with any of it.

“I’m right here,” Auguste reassures. His hands are smoothing over Laurent’s body, hot and careful and big, but it isn’t breaking through the syrupy ocean inside Laurent so much as stirring it, tugging Laurent along in the currents.

He was trying to tell Auguste again that he’d do anything Auguste wants, but that’s not important. Auguste knows already. So Laurent whines and clutches at him again, wordless.

Doing so brings him closer to Auguste, who is still talking, but Laurent is no longer listening. He’s discovered that he can grind his wet cunt against Auguste’s cock to relieve the ache throbbing inside him, and it feels so _good_ he wants to cry. Except he also wants more and has no idea how to make Auguste give it to him.

“Oh, darling,” Auguste murmurs. He tugs at the chain connecting the clamps, sending pain shocking through Laurent and dragging him back to himself. “There you are.”

“You’re mean,” Laurent whines, squirming against the new wave of aching in his chest. “Fuck me, _fuck me_ like you promised.”

“I _will_ ,” Auguste snaps. “I just don’t want you slipping away like that.”

“But I liked it,” Laurent sighs, and then grinds against Auguste again. Auguste groans. “I want it again, Auguste, _please._ ”

Auguste snarls wordlessly at him again, flipping them easily so Laurent’s on his back. He settles into the bed and looks smugly up at Auguste, pleased with himself for any break in Auguste’s control. And Laurent is so slippery and greedy inside that it’s no effort at all for Auguste to slide his cock home, just the deep satisfaction of a hunger fed at last. 

“Fuck,” Auguste mumbles. “You’re perfect. Laurent, Laurent—”

“Move,” Laurent demands. 

Auguste looks down at him for a tense second and then leans down to bite sharply at Laurent’s breasts, laving it over with his tongue right after. “Greedy,” he admonishes.

“ _Move,_ ” Laurent snarls, not so easily deterred, and yanks Auguste’s head back by the hair when he tries the same trick twice.

It takes a while for Laurent to lose himself and slide back into syrupy surrender again, but he’s too awash in the odd whirlpool between pleasure and pain for it to matter. He relaxes into Auguste’s hard thrusts, grinding down against them and making Auguste gasp and swear. 

He’s so thick inside Laurent that the drag of his cockhead against Laurent’s walls is its own delight, as are Auguste’s hands bruising his hips and his mouth teasing at Laurent’s neck and kissing the thick throb in his chest that’s no more background now than it was at the start, but _so_ much easier to breathe past when Auguste is right there with him.

He’s not sure when he comes, a rolling endless wave of pleasure that drowns everything else out, leaves him clinging and crying when it’s done. Auguste’s done too when he resurfaces, and Laurent’s cunt is wet and sloppy with their come and the thought of it would make him want more if he wasn’t nearly too tired to go on.

Auguste isn’t, though; he pulls out of Laurent and takes off the clamps without warning, making red pain burst in front of Laurent’s eyelids. He tugs Laurent back before he can curl in on himself, holding him close and sliding his fingers inside Laurent.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he says tenderly, stroking Laurent’s clit, and Laurent comes once more, shocked and undone and defenceless.

Auguste is utterly relentless though, fingering him for so long after that Laurent almost cries. He's a perfect island in a storm he called up, wrecking Laurent again and again until he's not sure whether or not he's crying, too broken by pleasure to tell. 

The last orgasm Auguste drags out of Laurent while fucking his thighs, cock heavy and red and so large Laurent stares at it and blankly wonders how they ever managed to fit it inside him. 

Auguste guides Laurent's fingers down to his own clit, making him rub it until he comes again. It's crude and rough and Laurent _likes_ it. 

But afterwards he's exhausted. “No more,” he begs, teary and wrung out and oversensitive everywhere.

Auguste chuckles and rubs his come against the inside of Laurent’s thigh. Laurent jerks in his arms. “No,” he promises. “No more.”

Laurent heaves a relieved sigh and snuggles against Auguste, closes his eyes. “Love you,” he sighs. “So much.”

“Oh.” Auguste goes still, and Laurent opens his eyes briefly to check if he’s alright. Auguste looks surprised and almost a little sad. Or gentle. Laurent doesn't know. But then he says, “I love you too,” and “Sleep well, baby brother.”

**epilogue**

It’s a slow day, so Laurent’s relieved to see one of their regulars at the door. He begins making the coffee on autopilot, and has it ready by the time she’s at the counter. “That’ll be seven dollars,” Laurent says, sliding the latte across the counter. “Thanks for stopping by!” 

“Excellent service,” she says, surprised, and tips him three dollars. He thanks her and drops the money into the takeaway cup under the counter labeled _Nicaise’s tips_ in Nicasie’s bad print.

If Nicaise has yet noticed what Laurent is doing—and he must have, he’s not stupid—he hasn’t brought it up. Probably the only reason Nicaise hasn’t fought Laurent about the money yet is because he knows Laurent would deny it.

And it’s only a stopgap measure until Laurent figures out another way to get across to Nicaise. Laurent sometimes doesn’t know if he _should._ He doesn’t trust himself that much. But he owes it to Nicaise, to his own past self, to _try._

He looks up and blinks, surprised at his next customer. And then he pastes on his friendliest customer-service smile and says, “What may I get for you today?”

Auguste grins back. “Whatever you feel like giving me.”

Out of the corner of Laurent’s eye, he sees Nicaise step out of the changing room, just clocking in for his shift. He stops dead when he sees Auguste. Laurent can’t blame him. Auguste is unfairly beautiful.

“How do you feel about cinnamon?” It’s a trick question—he knows Auguste likes cinnamon. His hands are moving already.

Apparently Auguste is in a mood today, because he replies “I’ve never really given it much thought. Would you recommend it?”

Laurent pretends to consider this. “It’s refreshing and spicy, perfect if you’re going to be spending all day at work.”

“I’ll be working at home all day, actually,” Auguste tells him. “But I might just grab a table here. It’s really a nice place. I wouldn't even know it existed if it hadn't come recommended by someone else I know.”

“Arles is full of surprises,” Laurent laughs, sliding the cinnamon-and-vanilla mocha towards Auguste.

“How much?” Auguste asks, picking it up. He takes a sip and hums appreciatively. 

Laurent watches the bob of his throat, suddenly hungry. Auguste has _no_ right to do this to him, but Laurent can’t precisely say he minds. “On the house,” he says belatedly. “You’re free to find yourself a table if you want.

Nicaise is still standing there, jaw half-open with shock.

“Thank you _so_ much,” Auguste enthuses, and wanders over one of the tables by the window. Laurent watches as he pulls his laptop and headphones out of his bag, settling in.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Nicaise says at last.

“Get to work,” Laurent orders. “You need to stock the pastry display.”

“Because you were too busy _flirting_!” Nicaise sputters. “With some— _customer—_ ”

Laurent laughs. He can’t help it. “ _He_ flirted first. Not that it’s your business. Pastry display, Nicaise, sometime _today._ ”

“Nothing’s my business,” Nicaise says scathingly.

“Precisely.” 

Laurent turns back and keeps staring at Auguste. Another customer walks up and Laurent hardly even notices himself making the order, working on autopilot while noting the way Auguste stares out of the window. Laurent loves that thoughtful look on his face, loves how clever and careful and attentive Auguste is, with everything he likes and with Laurent too.

“You’re being obvious,” Nicaise mutters, dragging trays out of the oven where the baker that comes in early every morning left them to cool.

“It’s fine,” Laurent says absently. “He doesn’t mind.”

“How the fuck would _you_ know that?” Nicaise shifts pastries into the shelves, quick and neat. “And don’t say it’s none of my business again, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Laurent asks archly, dragging his eyes away at last.

“I will _bite_ you.”

“Not my thing, sorry,” Laurent drawls. Nicaise snarls soundlessly back.

Laurent makes up his mind and sets to making another one of the cinnamon-and-vanilla mochas, heart beating a touch too fast. Snaps his fingers rudely at Nicaise, who scowls. “Here, man the counter for a while. I’m taking a break.”

“We _just_ got on shift,” Nicaise says, long-suffering. He makes it too easy, really, to mess with him.

Laurent only shrugs noncommittally, takes his coffee and walks over to Auguste’s table. Auguste looks up at him, surprised and pleased, and Laurent smiles back. Smiles like they’ve only met today.

“Hey there,” he starts, and then hesitates, ducking his head. “Mind if I take this seat?”

“Feel free,” Auguste answers. There's a bright glint in his eyes. “I'd love to get to know you better.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated! i have a [tumblr](https://ciaran.tumblr.com).


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